


when you wake up tomorrow

by heartworld (theseaofglass)



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post-Split, brendon makes dick jokes, not as many as i'd like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 19:54:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2824142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theseaofglass/pseuds/heartworld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which Lying is the worst kind of forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when you wake up tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> so this started with me wanting brendon to make jokes about ryan’s dick and it turned into existential rambling. OH WELL.

ryan did not write _lying_ so that brendon could sing it at him.

he really wishes z would stop sending him links to the videos. unfortunately, brendon's dedications keep getting more elaborate, and z remains amused.

_lulz!!!!!!!!_

is all her latest email says, prefacing a youtube link.

ryan is a masochist and believes that the known is always preferable, and he clicks the link.

“so this song here--" the sound is tinny, probably coming from a cell phone, shaky footage focused on tight pants the footage pans up to show brendon's face, smirk on his lips but eyebrows drawn tight tight tight over his eyes. brendon has really fucking nice eyebrows, ryan thinks absently. "there's a boy out there, ladies and gentlemen, and he got his once upon a time. he was raised in the land of glitz and glamour, and he hated every minute of it! he was blessed with magic words, and he escaped from that place.” brendon leans out over the audience, wide eyes and a feral grin. "but little did he know that city left a curse on him. he had a heart as hollow as his hometown. this song goes out to that boy!”

brendon launches into a triumphant rendition of _lying is the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off_ , and ryan sits back in his computer chair.

so.

at first it was simple things like, "this is for a guy who's going to think he wrote some really great words" and "this song here is dedicated to a old friend--one who thought he could do whatever he wants because he has a big dick!”. exactly the kind of simplicity ryan expects from brendon. but as the tour has worn on, brendon's been building up his speeches. ryan is kinda impressed at the time he’s putting into it. ryan can even appreciate the irony of this form of vengeance.

beyond revenge, it also is a brilliant marketing campaign. ryan (who, again, is a masochist and never stopped being 14 at heart) has been watching tumblr explode at regular intervals with fans hating his guts--and buying panic!'s new album.

sure, some of the fanbase thinks brendon’s playing it up, and ryan is a victim of his own stage show gone renegade. this would appease ryan's martyr complex if brendon’s anger was anything less than justified.

of course there were creative differences. like, brendon wanting to do absolutely crazy trashy pop things that would just _ruin_ the integrity of ryan's art, and ryan very reasonably wanting to sing more and brendon very unreasonably putting his face in his hands and saying, _ryan, you_ made _me sing_.

who knows? maybe they would have pulled through. but it wasn't that alone. it was also pretty blond girls that always did catch ryan’s eye. it was the weight of public perception, and ryan could never quite tell the truth. it was the fact that he was in love, and terrified.

and brendon said he was in love too, and he wasn't afraid.

(he kept the stage, let ryan run run away)

the problem is this. who decides good or bad? ryan thinks nothing is better off dead, but plenty is better never existing.

he still loves.

that's the problem. 

 

* * *

 

this is the problem.

"you actually have really boring taste in food," brendon says, sitting across the table.

ryan doesn't know how he got here. ryan lets life happen to him. he regrets that.

"we're broken up," ryan says. he keeps repeating the words in his head until they're empty sounds.

"in every sense of the term," brendon adds helpfully, taking a sip of his martini. "so. i'm not going to stop."

"i could have invited you just to hang out," ryan protests.

brendon swirls his knife around his water glass. the metal clink clink clinks against the ice cubes. "yeah fucking right," he says.

"you don't know," ryan says. he pulls his one leg up, wedging it between the edge of the table and the booth seat. he ignores the sneer of a passing waiter.

"i know you, ryan ross," brendon says. "and you don't like anyone. you don't even like yourself."

what an easy line.

the waitress comes, drops of their pizzas. she squints at them a little, like she's seen their faces somewhere but can't really remember. ryan appreciates the reminder that he can't become famous enough to matter. ryan says. "i don't hate you."

brendon puts his hand on ryan's knee under the table. ryan blinks. brendon grabs a slice of pizza with his other hand.

“dude," ryan says.

“you came here to ask me to stop talking about our shitty relationship in public,” brendon says, talking through a mouthful of cheese and sauce. “and i came here because i know you can’t keep it in your pants."

brendon, ryan thinks, has a funny idea of justice.

(there’s a problem with dreams coming true. life is supposed to be quiet, and it never really stops being that way. no matter what the screams of the crowd say.)

“i wanted it to be different with you,” ryan says.

brendon leans close, dark dark eyes searching ryan's face and ending on his lips. “fuck you,” he says softly.

ryan has never really had any idea of justice.

brendon’s fingers grip tighter. they’re probably wrinkling the fabric of ryan’s slacks. they’re nice slacks. "you gave me those damn words. a nice big lead up, so you could get hurt just how you wanted.”

brendon falls quiet, leans back as the waitress comes by. his face falls into a picture perfect smile, and his fingers never leave ryan’s knee.

ryan grasps in his pocket, tossing out bills absently on the fake leather check.

"you can't write pretty words if you have a pretty life," he says sardonically, ironically, lovely-laced with all his favorite defense mechanisms. this is his thesis. he whispers the words in brendon’s ear as they leave the restaurant, walking close enough that their pinkies touch.

brendon's lips quirk a little. he has this whole range of expressions now that are alien to ryan. brendon takes his hand, thumb pressing hard into the raised blue veins on the back.

(blood flow, circle circle circle.

circle _back._ )

brendon says, "your place." he's not mean about it.  
  


* * *

 

ryan wakes up alone in his room. he watches the dust swirling in morning sun from skylight. born from dust, he thinks.

 

* * *

 

jon looks up from the lyrics. "these aren't angry," he says.

"I stopped being angry, and pretty. odd. happened," ryan says. he's pretty sure jon was there for that, and even sober sometimes.

"but like," jon makes an indulgent gesture, a roll of his shoulder and a flick of his wrist, arcing from ryan to a a purple batik tapestry on the other side of ryan’s living room. "don't you want revenge?"

"on brendon?" ryan snorts.

"unless you were fucking spencer too?" jon says politely.

ryan throws a throw pillow at jon, and misses. he quietly picks it up, and puts it back in place. jon shrugs.

"it's kinda brendon's revenge to revenge, you know?" ryan says. "i can't mess with that or it'd be like a revenge loop, dude."

“like a time travel loop?” jon says. ryan’s cat rubs against his legs, knowing jon can be exploited for scratches.

“yeah, like, _cataclysmic_ ,” ryan says.

"well," jon says, picking the cat up and nuzzling his face against it. "i don't know that apologizing is much better.”

ryan lays back on the couch and inspects the words on his notebook. jon walker lies and ryan's lyrics are simply clever and universally meaningful constructions of metonym and meter. "do you have a problem with them as lyrics?" ryan says. he's very good at expressing two emotions, boredom and disdain, and his voice isn't good for much else.

jon sighs. "no," he says into the cat’s fur. "they'll make good songs."

ryan stands and picks up his guitar, knocking his knuckles against the wooden sides. “well then," he says. "let's play."

 

* * *

 

the problem is that they're famous. ryan was famous before he was infamous, and memory is proof that time is not linear, it's perception.

fame is not forgetting, and _lying_ is the worst kind of forever because it’s a moment of time that the fans fell in love with. it's a curse of a kind, because brendon will have to keep singing it as long as he keeps being panic!. in truth, ryan admires brendon’s dedications. his ingenuity, when ryan would have given up and walked away.

(did.)

the problem is, ryan can't move on and sometimes can't remember who he is. sometimes he believes the Internet. sometimes he believes his own head.

the problem is that it was never ryan's move to make, and he made it anyway.

so this time, he sits on the side of the stage. crosslegged on dusty (dust) ground. he's hidden behind an amp, so he can only really see the drum platform and a sliver of the stage, but it's a worthy tradeoff to be hidden from the audience. a backstage pass dangles from his neck. no one but a few security guys know he's there. ryan draws music notes in the dust while he waits for the techies to finish setting up the stage.

he watches panic! play, that strange mix of songs ryan could sing in his sleep and others that sound like strangers. he can’t see ian at all from where he’s sitting. it’s good. they're good. brendon is good. he's doing well for himself. he takes his shirt off a lot more now.

it means so little to know your biggest problem is yourself.

finally they're there, right where lying goes in the set list. brendon is too far upstage for ryan to see, but he listens.

"this song here," brendon says. and he pauses. ryan can’t see brendon’s eyes. "this song goes out to a boy who doesn't believe in forever. it's called _always._ "

ryan thinks, _oh._


End file.
